


So Two Gay Agents Walk into a Bar

by endgirl



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: 4x04, F/F, gaybrotp, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endgirl/pseuds/endgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rest of Myka and Steve's conversation at the bar. Just a brief gaybrotp reaction fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Two Gay Agents Walk into a Bar

Myka tipped the nose of her beer forward on the bar, rolling the bottle’s base on the damp napkin beneath it. It was only half-finished and only her first one, but already her limbs were feeling heavy and her shoulders were beginning to sag. Maybe it wasn’t the beer so much as this day. It had gone on long enough already, between the files of traumatized patients and the trumpeter of pain, and now here she was. Sitting on a cracked leather stool in the Quarter with Steve, drinking and wishing for someone else.

“She’ll be back.”

“I know,” she said automatically, without really listening to Steve’s words. She heard the empty promises often enough from Pete, who seemed eager to make up to her, in some small way, the many months of ire he’d directed at Helena. It was sweet, but it didn’t change anything.

“Look, I realize I don’t know her as well as you guys do. Or, well, at all, really.” His tone was kind but matter-of-fact, almost offhand. It was nothing like the clumsy, halted comfort from Pete or Claudia’s own barely concealed longing, and the honesty of his words made Myka look up from her bottle. “And I know I wasn’t here for a lot of it. But she’s a good friend, and friends come back.”

She flinched, because what Steve had missed was the _whole thing_ , and she realized that maybe Claudia hadn’t been sharing as many of Myka’s secrets as she’d assumed. All of a sudden they were discussing H.G. Wells, author and inventor and friend of the Warehouse, not _Helena_ , and her stomach flipped with the wrongness of it all. Suddenly it was very important that he understand. “No, no, it’s not--. I mean, she’s not--.” Myka swallowed and stared at the beer label she’d begun to peel off, blinking back the tears that had rushed in to make this moment more impossible than it already was. “We just....”

“ _Oh_.” The word came out in a rush of air, and his hand covered hers on the bar. “I’m so sorry, Myka. I didn’t know. I just thought....” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Myka turned her hand in his, palm to palm, and squeezed. “I know. You read my file, about Sam.” She managed a small, rueful smile. “It’s okay, I wouldn’t have guessed it about myself either.”

Steve grinned back at her. “Well, I don’t know. I might have. Given a little more time. A few more of those blue button-down shirts, maybe.”

She couldn’t help the short chuckle that broke free, which, from the look on his face, was exactly what Steve had intended. “Don’t make me punch you, Jinks. Pete can tell you, I don’t mess around.”

“Not really helping your case here.”

She laughed then, really laughed, and for a moment the weight on her shoulders felt a bit more manageable.

Steve took a swig of his beer with his other hand, the one that wasn’t still holding Myka steady. “So Helena is your first.”

Myka blushed, but there was nothing but warmth and encouragement and the slightest hint of brotherly amusement on Steve’s face. She nodded.

“Not bad, Agent Bering, not bad. I’ve seen some pictures.” He let out a low whistle that reminded her of Pete, and she frowned for a moment before she realized that was exactly who he was imitating.

With another laugh she let go of his hand and landed the promised punch on his shoulder. “Neanderthal. _Gay_ Neanderthal.”

She had forgotten what it felt like to talk like this. To be herself, even if that meant sitting in a bar in New Orleans and joking about things she shouldn't with Steve, of all people, instead of the level-headed agent who kept everyone else’s fears in check. The one who only ever said _I know_ when someone made another hollow comment about H.G.’s imminent return.

She picked up her beer and clanked the neck of the bottle in Steve’s hand. “To loved ones,” she said.

Steve smiled. “To H.G. Wells.”

It didn’t take away the pain, but it did make it a little easier to carry.


End file.
